


Foresight

by Thematic_Kane



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: And an obligatory bottle of whiskey, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Post Culling, Subtle mention of Jake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 00:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8182625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thematic_Kane/pseuds/Thematic_Kane
Summary: Post Culling, S1- Marcus is overwhelmed by the guilt of his actions, and Abby tries to provide comfort where she can.





	

His feet tremble as he fights the immense weight on his shoulders. He cannot sustain it. A second later, his knees buckle sending him tumbling to the floor, completely at the mercy of the guilt bearing over him. The unsavoury tang of alcohol bites at the back of his throat, but its presence in his bloodstream is not enough to alleviate the burden. His head feels heavy, he tilts it back finding purchase against cold metal. He leans against the wall, begging for support. Without its presence, he would simply slide down to the floor. It’s a strange contrasting weightlessness, it’s as if it were the only thing anchoring his constant desire to seemingly float away.

 He pulls his knees to his chest, his fingers twisting the loose threads surrounding the worn holes at his knees. Comfort alludes him — he is haunted by the immense futility of his actions. He was wrong and 320 people have now payed the ultimate price for his mistake. He is jarred from the macabre twist his thoughts have taken by the harsh pounding on the door. He knows he needs the distraction and despite how much he yearns for absolution, he does not desire the reprimand.

He does not wish to be party to the way their faces melt into despair and curl in anger, spitting curses borne in frustration when they grasp the real tragedy of his error. He has no desire to become their target, although he deserves it more than most. This hatred has become common place. He cannot bring himself to answer their calls, a weary reluctance over comes him. He does not want to lose himself under their damning cries of justice. He is tired, so very tired. The hammering continues, reverberating inside his quarters, melding into a symphony to keep his misery entertained.

“Kane,” the voice pleads from behind the door and for a wayward moment his gut jumps with recognition. What could _she_ possibly want with him now? He does not give a response. She calls out again, a hint of frustration in her voice, “Kane, open up. I know you’re in there.”

She provides just enough distraction that suddenly his thoughts have drifted. They are no longer centred on the misery of his decision but rather focused on the image of her face. The sheer stubborn, impulsive intensity of her forces an ill-timed smirk to his lips. He shakes his head, the dark curls of his untamed hair brush frivolously against the wall, steeling himself for making what is probably another unwise call. Her hammering has not stopped if anything it has increased in its fervour.

 “It’s unlocked,” he barks at her, resigning himself to his fate. He listens to the latch being pulled back and closes his eyes as she steps across the threshold of his quarters. He can simply imagine her face, pinched in distain at the sight of him on the floor. But, when he opens his eyes, what he finds is surprising: she almost seems sorrowful. It's unexpected. He cannot bring himself to look at her any longer, not when he’s become resigned to the stubborn impudence that she usually exudes.

He sighs fitfully. He asks, “Come to gloat?”

His words are devoid of their familiar bite. He almost regrets them as she recoils, eyebrows pinched in confusion at his hostility.

 “No,” she responds quietly, moving further into his quarters despite the absence of an invitation. “Death is never to be gloated.”

His chest tightens — guilt stricken — he immediately regrets ever letting her through the door, although a part of him — a part he does not understand — admires her ability to get under his skin. No matter the context, whether she is scolding or celebratory there is something about her presence that he cannot be so easily unaffected by. His jaw clenches as she steps in closer, observing him impassively before easing herself down to the floor beside him. He turns his head to regard her curiously. She lifts up a hand, an expensive bottle of whiskey clutched in its grasp.

“You’ve already started.” She cannot help but sound accusatory; he nods slowly unsure if he’s being reprimanded. Instead, she unscrews the lid and brings the bottle to her lips, taking a hearty swallow. He watches the liquid cascade from the bottle into her mouth. As she pulls away, her tongue darts out to capture the stray droplets collected on her lips. He watches that too and suddenly his position on the floor isn’t as comfortable as he first thought. He shifts, fidgeting slightly under her gaze. Her lips morph into a smirk. She jests, “I guess I’ve got some catching up to do.”

He’s dumbfounded — how can she sit here in such a close proximity to him knowing just how much blood is on his hands. He’s perplexed, her expression softens watching him sadly. Her free hand closes the space between them and lays companionably on his thigh. His mouth is suddenly dry as he attempts to swallow. He plucks the bottle from her grasp and lines his throat with liquor, relishing the burn that is softer and more delicate than still borne moonshine.

“You’re right,” he rasps, feeling a tingle in his tongue. She says nothing. He wonders why it is suddenly so easy to confide in her, sitting on the floor of his quarters, their thighs pressed together warmly.

 The realisation is crushing him. He whispers more to himself than to her, “It was avoidable, all of it.”

The hand on his thigh tightens its hold, clutching at his cargo pants. “You did what you thought was right at the time.”

Her tone is firm and yet the sentiment of it strikes him sadly. He has an inkling that she is not simply referring to the Culling. They have both made terrible mistakes. They all have sins to answer for, some just bore bigger consequences than others. He is wise not to mention the subtext passing between them. Instead, he places his hand atop of hers; her skin is warm beneath his palm. He lightly traces circles on the back of her hand with his fingertips, curious as to how smooth her skin feels. He hears the slight hitch of breath on her behalf and is glad that he has consumed enough alcohol to not be held accountable for his actions.

“They’re all dead and nothing I can do will change that.” The words stick in the back of his throat as he forces them out. He can feel himself slowly collapse under the strain of this burden. He’s frustrated as his vision grows blurry with the tears that refuse to fall.

She moves her hand from underneath his, for a moment he is struck by the loneliness the action ignites in him. He is too quick to assume, as she brushes her hand against his again, softly intertwining their fingers. He tries to quiet the quickening of his heart.

“You have to forgive yourself,” she murmurs.

He cannot help his response, baiting her is practically second nature to him. “Like you have?”

He regrets it immediately as she tenses, stiffening under his gaze. He is prepared for the feeling of her hand slipping away from his, but it does not come. He wonders if his distinct lack of tact could be explained away by his alcohol consumption, but some things are purely a fault of his alone and she knows it too.

 She stares at him stonily. Her hand in his suddenly feels disheartening rather than comforting. It’s strange how vulnerable and insecure he is under her dark eyes, as if she could detect his every fault with a single blink. He’s never felt such a myriad of contrasting emotion before. There’s an unsettling sense of liberty with her. There is no necessity to hide, no secret he could keep that she would not already know. There is no need for explanation, she understands his reasoning, the morality that drives him, even if she does not always agree with it.

He watches the bricks slowly crumble away from her stony expression, breaking the façade. Her eyes are soft with melancholy, a deep aching sadness that Marcus yearns to dissolve. He watches the traitorous tears escape down her cheek as her breath hitches containing the sob he knows is coming. Heaven forbid she allows herself to cry in front of him.

 “No,” she rasps, shaking her head, needing an excuse to break the connection between them. He is left feeling horribly misplaced. She lifts the forgotten bottle of whiskey back to her lips taking a generous mouthful. He chases her touch once more, squeezing her hand tentatively. The contact reignites their connected gaze, as she turns back to him.

He whispers contritely, “I’m sorry, I never meant—”

She cuts him off, gently holding his hand. “I know.”

The words drift into the silence.

Kane isn’t sure what this all means, but something has shifted between them. He wonders perhaps if it was always supposed to be this way and if he was a fool for trying to avoid it. Fate had threaded them together in this maelstrom of complex consequences and emotions. He had no hope of escaping her now. Their journeys were intertwined, intersecting on the same path, wandering out from the darkness. He knows she must feel it too.

He hears the whiskey bottle clink to the ground as her body shifts against his. Her head settles in the crook of his shoulder, their sides pressed warmly together. He closes his eyes and forgets himself in a world where he can simply be content with her comfort.  They have sins to answer for, but perhaps if they were together, things would be different. He wonders if such a day will ever come.

**Author's Note:**

> Hugs to TenToo for the edit. <3  
> Thanks for reading.


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